Lessons in Chromatics

Banana

Black is a colour. So the Gap would like me to know in their latest advertisements -- which seem to be everywhere. A flaxen-haired Jena Malone, black-jeaned and-shoed, reclines alongside this declaration; slouched in a pose reminiscent of many evenings I've spent post-too-much supper wondering whether it would really be so bad if I simply never buttoned my jeans again.

This is confusing to me, because I am sure that I was always told that black is not a colour. One of those clever tricks that technicians played on we more semantic creatures: "Ah ha, but technically black isn't a colour -- it's all the colours mixed together." Except that any time I tried this theory for myself, I produced a miry mess of paint in a shade no right-minded soul would ever think to apply to a pair of jeans (or shoes).

Well, oh great and powerful Gap, let me tell you, black is in fact an absence of colour.

Breakfast the Three-Hundred-and-Fifth

Mutant cinnamon and raisin bagel with apricot jam (it has no hole in the middle).

Tonight I go to bed full of smugness at having performed a ruthless wardrobe cull. The bags are in the hall. All I need to do now is make it to the charity shop/clothes collection bin without being tempted into granting amnesty to any "oh but I used to wear this lots" garments...

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Ninty-Sixth

Cinammon & raisin bagel with blueberry jam, and a nectarine.

Oh moth babies, why must you eat my favourite jumpers? And WHERE are you hiding? I thought I'd winkled you out months ago... Dang nammit.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Seventh

Special K clustery thingys and strawberries.

This afternoon, the woman in the oh-so-decadent sandwich shop asked me if I'd just finished my exams. These days I'm generally flattered when someone takes me for a young thing; but it did also cross my mind that her assumption was perhaps based less on my youthful glow, and more on the fact that I have become so terminally scruffy of late.

Breakfast the One-Hundred-and-Eleventh

Jammy doughnut, smoothie and strawbugs.

Another late night, after dancing until well past witching hour, hence the late posting. The weather was glorious, so much so that I acquired a quite ludicrous bib-shaped sun burn during the afternoon, which looked rather silly when I changed into my glad rags in the evening.

The funny thing about donning glad rags is that my friends are generally, genuinely shocked to see me looking well turned out. I suppose this is one of the hazaards of working from home. I am, more often than not, make-up-less and dressed like a tramp when I see people after work.

Breakfast the Fifty-Eighth

Oaty cluster thingys and yoghurt.

One of the pitfalls of working from home, I find, is that you take to wearing some pretty idiosyncratic get-ups. Today was definitely a low in the sartorial stakes. I'd forgotten how oddly attired I was until I ventured out in search of lunch and garnered some baffled looks. It seems the good people of Edinburgh expect rather more than navy blue leggings (clean trousers in short supply) teamed with thick purple socks, brown boat shoes, a fleece in an odd air-force blue shade, a grey coat and a red-wine stained bobbly hat...

The only other thing I have to say is hurrah for shrove Tuesday (the pancake part of it at least). Nom, nom, nom.

Breakfast the Thirty-Third

Honey Nut Cornflakes and banana.

I think my clothes come to life when I'm not looking and break out of my cupboard and drawers. I often walk into my bedroom and have no idea how it got to be so messy. I was commiserating about this with chanteuse extraordinaire Sophie Ramsay. Her theory is that "if you give clothes an inch, they will take a mile." She said if you leave your drawer a touch open, they will leap out and throw themselves on the floor.

In addition to possessed clothing, I'm also plagued by miscellaneous scraps of paper which all seem to have something important scrawled on them. I'm sure other people don't have this problem. I've met tidy people, and they don't seem to be endlessly toiling to maintain order like I am. I think there may be a gene for tidiness, and if you don't have it you will spend your life battling to keep your desk clear of papers. And your floor clear of clothes.